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Ch. 10: In the Name of the Road
(Return to Arheled) “…so, you see, according to relativity, if we take into account the warping effect of spacetime it would seem there are multiple voids in space, where there are no stellar clusters. Next week we’ll get to use the labs, and as it looks like I’ve exceeded my time again I suppose that will be all.” said Professor Hunter Light. Ronnie Wendy came up to him as he always did after class. Usually he had some pertinent questions about the stars or some random angle of astronomy, but tonight more practical matters were on his mind. “Do you need your roof shoveled?” he said. He’d just got done doing the various roofs of his own place, and even though it made him stiff and sore the extra income was welcome. “Well, as a matter of fact the pavement guys wanted to charge me $300 to do it, so I was going to head up there myself.” said Professor Light. “What do you charge?” “$10 an hour.” Light nodded. “Splendid. I have tomorrow off. Do you have a car, by any chance?” “I’ll have to excavate.” said Ronnie wryly. “I drove a bit during the Grinding Cold, but its’ buried again. What time?” “Oh, around 8 will be good enough. It’s supposed to get warm again. If you like you can stay to supper; Bell keeps wanting to ask you over.” The roof proved to be a steep one, but Mr. Light already had two ladders ready. The day warmed up steadily. By lunchtime they had most of one side done. “Come on in.” said Mr. Light. “You don’t have to eat in your truck. Do you want a sandwich?” Ronnie said he did. As he ate, Ronnie said, “There’s one thing I never can understand, Professor.” “Hunter, please; we’re not in the classroom.” “Hunter. Well, you’re always saying how ‘if we factor in relativity and spacetime.’ Is relativity something in its’ own right, like light waves or light speed? And what is spacetime?” “Oh dear.” said Mr. Light. “That’s rather complicated. The theory of relativity is a term descriptive of a certain system of calculation, based on the principle that no one point can be regarded as ‘fixed’ in order to be measured from, and that as a result all viewpoints and measurements are relative to the person measuring or observing, and are different if compared to other frames of reference. But we tend in the scientific community to refer more to ‘special’ and ‘general’ relativity.” “Yes, but how can that be made the basis for any system of calculations? If measurements are relative, how can you compute?” Mr. Light leaned on the table. “By velocity. The speed of light in a vacuum remains constant for all inertial observers. As a result it forms the common unit for computation between differing systems of coordinates. This common unit forms one factor of a four-dimensional frame of calculation: the three spatial dimensions of a cube, and a fourth, time.” “Are you saying time as in before and after?” “In physics we usually prefer ‘reference frames’. The reference frame from any one point is then measured along three axes of space: left, right and up. Events are points where time intersects these three axes, and so events are used to measure and calculate spacetime using these axes, and the time it occurs in forms the time-coordinate. Since the speed of light is constant—“ “Wait. I don’t get that. An event is…what?” “An event equals the time at which one line intersects the three spatial axes. Thus you say that at 3:00 James was hit by a car going horizontal one way in reference to vertical and depth axes, and the intersection of James and car is the event. On a grid, of course, it’s a place where two different lines intersect.” Ronnie nodded. “Since the speed of light is constant, flashes and the time of their travel can be used to bridge differing frames of reference. Light will travel from, say, event A to observers elsewhere.” “So what is spacetime?” “A way of describing the observable phenomena of the universe by combining space and time into a single mathematical model or continuum. The observed rate at which time passes for an object depends on the object’s velocity relative to the observer, and hence cannot be seperated from the three dimensions of space. Gravitational fields, since they can affect the speed and passage of light, introduce similar curves or warps in nearby space which calculations have to take into account, and as space and time are connected, to bend space is also to bend time.” “And how do they figure that?” “Well, let’s take the example of the Twin Paradox. Einstein calculated that when two clocks that were in all respects identical were seperated and one of them was rapidly accelerated, this clock would tick slower than the stationary clock. If instead of clocks we postulate twin men, one staying here and the other travelling in a spaceship at light speed, the time for the travelling twin was mere instants, but for the other, moving at normal speed, more time would pass. Specifically,” drawing on a napkin, “if the spaceship travels to a star 4.45 light-years from us, Earth time measures 10.28 years for the full trip. But the clocks on board ship will slow, and so will the aging of the passengers, and if the speed of the ship is 86.6% light-speed this will be measured to have taken only 5.14 years, as far as the passengers can tell. As a measurement of length actually contracts at great velocities, their trip-length will have undergone the same contraction.” '' Relative, relative, everything is relative, how do you know that reality exists, '' rang through Ronnie’s mind. “Because two observers of the same event will see it at differing times, and because two events that seem simultaneous to one observer will always have angles from which another observer will see them at differing times. Time is relative to the person measuring it. Or, to look at a practical example, if two travelers at differing angles and velocities pass each other and shine light from one to the other, they will record differing times for the arrival and speed of the flashes the farther apart they go, so that sequence and a before and after—past and future immediate to them—become relative to the observer.” He paused to gather his thoughts. '' His past is not your past, and he will stay forever young while you grow old and die,'' echoed again in Ronnie’s ears. He looked down at his fist, which still bore the scars of the stone wall upon it. “At speeds of light the discrepancy, the slowing down of time for the one travelling, would increase to such an extent that if you travelled at light speed away from the Earth for 20 years and then back to it for 20 years, so that 40 years passed for you, relative to Earth you would have travelled 24,000 light years from Earth. When you got back, 48,004 years would have passed on Earth.” “That is impossible.” said Ronnie. “No, it is possible, you just don’t understand the math.” “I understand basic math.” snapped Ronnie. “I understand that two and two are four. You tell me that the higher math makes 20 and 20 into 48,000. If that is the result of your numbers, then your math is based on a faulty logical premise. If you follow a logical process to an impossible conclusion, then it’s obvious there’s a flaw in your logic.” He got up. “Reality exists. Your math denies it. It’s time I got to work, anyway, or you’ll be docking me for the lunch hour.” “Okay, okay,” said Hunter Light, getting off the table. “It is rather counter-intuitive if you can’t understand the algebra involved. I get that reaction all the time.” “How is your invention going, by the way?” said Ronnie as they headed back out onto the roof. “Oh, much better!” said Mr. Light happily. “The grant went through and some of the parts have already arrived. We should have it assembled by late spring if we’re lucky.” Travel Lane parked in the back lot of Coffee Corner and looked around. The flat-topped little corner store building had an L-shaped lot, most of which was in front along Main St and the rest adjoining Case Av. It was next to the post office. Steep shingled edges made the flat roof look like it belonged in a country village somewhere. She spotted her friend’s car and walked over, rapping on the window. “Travel!” exclaimed the occupant, getting out. “Cypress!” Travel exclaimed in the same tone. “Give me a hug! It’s been so long!” “Yeah, I know, but you know how things are.” Cypress shrugged. She was an average-looking girl of about 18, with a rounded steady face, a quirky mouth that dimpled when she smiled, thoughtful cool blue eyes, and russet-brown hair pulled back from her head. There was a little ring piercing her lip. She was rather stocky, and today she wore a dark blue sweater and sweatpants. “I hear you’re in Winsted now.” said Travel. “How’s that going?” “Well, I live in a haunted house, for starters.” said Cypress as they headed inside. A glass door led into a small square foyer and another door led to the coffeeroom. The place was plain and simple, with a curved counter and bar stools, a few candy machines and a newspaper rack, and a glass pastry-display counter with the cash register. The menu board was white with little black and red letters. Several of the old men who were regulars here were grouching in chorous over in the back about the new taxes. “I’ll have a medium coffee, milk and sugar. Really? That’s—a little disturbing. Which one is it?” “Black French Vanilla, no cream, one sugar. It’s the weird purple house. Over by Park Place, you know, next to that Baptist church.” Cypress rolled her eyes. “And is it really haunted?” said Travel with great interest as they took seats. “All sorts of haunts.” shrugged Cypress. She had a streetwise, sad sort of toughness about her, the sort that comes to those who have endured a good deal of heartbreak. That and the fact that they shared odd names had drawn the girls together when they first went to Regional High, despite the age difference. “There’s Janar—she used to own the house—and she’s really kind of sweet, sad though too, I feel. And there’s Chuck—I think he was a New Ager, but they don’t really feel bad, you know? I kind of think they’re actually there as protection.” “Protection? Against what?” They were keeping their voices rather low, and Cypress was a little difficult to hear. “Well, there’s other stuff going on, too. Sometimes books get thrown around or things bang and chairs move, you know, and, well, when that’s happening I feel this nasty sort of pressure on my chest, pushing down on me. Like, if I were to put my hands on your chest and push down while you were lying flat. That’s what it feels.” “You should say a prayer for them.” said Travel. “The ghosts, I mean.” “Yeah, I suppose. Maybe I should ask the priest at St. Joseph’s about them.” “Is that the house right in front of the old cemetery?” “Yeah, the Witch Houses some of the locals call them. We get all the weirdos over there. Sometimes people just walk right in the door, cause it’s next to that surveyor’s office and they got the house wrong; oh yeah, it’s fun.” She rolled her eyes again. “It’s Winsted.” “Winsted? What does that mean?” “What do you mean, what does that mean?” Well, you said it sort of like a slur or something. What’s wrong with Winsted?” “It’s crazy, of course. You’re not a Winstedite, are you? No, I forgot, you’re from Colebrook. Where people will offer you a lift if you happen to walk up the back roads. Okay, this is kind of what I mean. My boyfriend and I had to go to the corner store at night for something, I was in my flowered pajamas and had bare feet cause it was a hot summer night, and the guy at the counter says Now I know I’m back in Winsted, and I says What? and he says, It’s the middle of the night, you’re in pajamas with no shoes, this happens a lot. Or something. It’s Winsted.” “Well, we do have a Wild Man of Winsted.” “Really? I never heard of it.” Then Travel had to tell her all about the Wild Man. The last mentioned incident had been in the 1970s, out by Rugg Brook Res, when two carfuls of panicked teenagers flagged down a patrol car and babbled they had been accosted by a towering figure with gleaming eyes, shaped like a man or monster or something. The policeman found nothing. “Isn’t that out by Mad River Dam?” said Cypress. “Cause there’s a hill over there, west of the dam kind of, I haven’t been there in years, but it feels kind of—eerie up on top of it. My stepfather was hunting there one time and he found something.” She paused. “It was a metal box, buried, and inside it was a knife, a rope and a bunch of plastic bags.” “Weird. Maybe a camper left it.” “I was thinking more like a murder. Just the sort of thing that would happen over there.” “Why bother putting it in a metal box, if the intent was to destroy evidence?” “Yeah, I guess. It’s just bizarre, is all. And it’s not the only place, too. When I used to live in Goshen, out by the Seven Gables house, there’s a place I walked my dog that felt really wrong. Creepy-wrong. I think it’s the Hall Meadow Dam area.” “Where’s this eerie hill again? It sounds interesting.” Cypress snorted. “One end butts right into Mad River. I think it’s between the river and Crystal Lake.” “How much time do we have? Cause I have to be back by one.” “It’s going on twelve. Let’s go grab some lunch. You want to try Kelley’s Kitchen or head farther up Main?” “Kelley’s Kitchen sounds good. Or we could go cackle at Cackleberry’s!” “Cackle at Cackleberry’s.” muttered Cypress, that quirky twist appearing on her mouth. “Sounds just like you.” Forest had decided to skip school today. It was an experiment. If his mom assumed he got on the bus, and he wasn’t, would anyone at school notice if he didn’t show up? So he waited until the bus had dropped him off, but instead of going inside he circled around the rear path under the pines. Blocked by the deep snow, with the warmer weather the maintenance staff was finally done clearing it. Then he headed down the teachers’ driveway and walked off down the street. Nobody shouted after him. Nobody that passed even looked at him. But then he was not looking at them. If I don’t meet their eyes, he often pretended, they can’t see me. He walked up one side street, one odd back street that wandered under tall old tired houses next to the stream from Gilbert High, up between high banks with houses on top, one house sheathed in ivy and soft-looking icicles pendant from the eaves. It was cloudy now and a little cooler, and faint and far away he heard the murmering roar of long winds. Left down Spencer Hill Rd took him past his own church at the triangle park. He took a shortcut through the long narrow parking lot of a long low office building, a high wall of cypress and whitecedar on the right shutting him off from the car repair garage on the corner. Murray St came down from the Soldier’s Tower, joining Main about a couple hundred feet south of Spencer Hill Rd. Up from the high bank on the far side of Murray rose the yellow brick Beardsley Library. Forest skirted the yew that overhung the sidewalk and headed inside. The librarian at the front desk wasn’t busy, and carefully not meeting her eyes Forest walked past. It was the papery frail old director today, Mrs. Linda, tall and faintly smiling, who always seemed to be watching. Watching. She gave him chills. But she seemed not to notice, and he went into the reading room, wrinkling his nose: something smelled like wood smoke. He looked over and his eyes lighted on the red hair of Ronnie Wendy. “Hello, Forest.” said Ronnie, not even lifting his eyes. Forest came over. “Ronnie?” “That’s me,” the other said, looking up from his book. “Who is Arheled?” Ronnie stared strangely at him. “I do not know. I don’t think it matters what he calls himself; what matters is what he does.” “Is he the Wild Man?” “I don’t know.” replied Ronnie. “But I think not. Ulmo and Ossë both rule the sea, yet they are not the same.” “What is Temple Fell?” Ronnie frowned. “That’s odd.” he said. “Very odd. Lara Midwinter was asking me the same thing. A fell is a mountain. Is it near here?” “Two miles from the Methodist church.” Ronnie nodded. “ ‘Fell, fjell’ is actually a Norse word, only there it refers to rounded mountains that rise above the tree line. In other places it means high grazing grounds, especially on cleared mountaintops. Mountains of the same rounded shape are also called fells at times even when trees grow on top. Sometimes ‘fell’ was used only of the top of a mountain, ignoring the rest. Most of the hills have no names,” he said, opening the atlas of topographic maps. “Not the Cobbles, definitely…not Street Hill…I’d say your best bet is this hill down east of 3rd Bay, or this ‘aqueduct’ hill north of Crystal.” “Where’s Prospect St?” said Forest. Ronnie pointed it out. Forest traced its’ line to Lake St, found Meadow St and ran his hand north. A deep valley was indicated there, with the long upland labeled Spencer Hill (erroneously, Ronnie said) forming the east wall, and another roundish height to the west. A stream was marked, and amid the valley a swamp labeled Indian Meadow. “What are these hills?” he said. “Well, right here,” indicating a narrow prow of land jutting from the northern highlands down into Winsted, “is The Cobble. This other height which the map got wrong, is actually Second Cobble.” '' Indian Meadow. That was where he lived. '' Growing hungry after a while, he decided he would head for home. Mom always got back long after the bus came. It was only 1:00 anyway. When he went outside he was surprised to find it was snowing. The ground was patchy white, for the air was much colder and powerful winds moaned in the bare trees along the river. Road workers were scooping with a payloader the massive snowbanks like brown hills between street and sidewalk, dumping white and pale brown rubble into a town dump truck. Forest headed down Main a couple hundred yards until he reached Lake St. He plodded up the long hill and the sharp turn. A really old house on the right with walls entirely stone stood almost on the lip of the ravine down which spilled the stream from Long Lake. On the left above him was the ancient house at the brink of the hill, the high dark spruce above it. He came to the spillways and headed out by means of a snowmobile gateway near the grassy berm by the Spillway Grill, out onto the ice. “Ah, there you are, Forest!” cried the Man in Brown, skidding up on the left. “I thought you’d never get here!” “What’s wrong?” said Forest. “Your mother needs you.” said Brown. He was wrapped in a great cloak of brownish-grey, scarf tied on outside a hood over his fur cap. “Come. I will take you swiftly.” The warm weather earlier had melted the deep snow on the lake, and the sudden cold snap had turned slush to solid ice, lumpy but smooth to glide on. Wind-driven snow was drifting and skidding in wispy streamers, and walls of white whirling snow-wisps leaped up before every long gust. Snow devils spun in tall funnels and faded. The wind howled down from the north-west, funneling into the long lake-vale and blowing almost unremittingly. “Stand tightly, lad!” shouted Brown as a tremendous gust came up. Runner-blades sprang from his boots. Holding out his cloak by jamming a long stick sideways behind his back, with the other he seized Forest by the shoulder. The wind took them, filling the cloak like a sail. They raced across the glassy ice, faster and faster, until they were outpacing the very snow-devils on either hand. Forest felt both terrified and wildly thrilled: how they were managing to keep upright and not stumble on the lumpy ice he had no idea. The laughter of the man in brown resounded about him. There was the island, straight ahead. A great cloud of snow blew past Forest and then he was slithering to a stop before he could crash into the steps in the seawall. He was not surprised to find himself alone. Climbing up into the parking lot he noticed at once Mom’s red car was here; odd, he thought she had a full day scheduled. He eased open the door and shut it as carefully as he might. Voices came from the living room, a man’s love-making tones, dripping and gooey, and his mom, sounding pleased and flustered but uneasy. Forest walked in. Sure enough, it was Mr. Mwaha from the Big Island. He was sitting on the couch beside Mom, and his big ugly beaming face was right next to hers. Mom looked—well, half like she liked it and half like she didn’t know what to do. She looked up and gave a sort of gasp, and at the same time there was almost relief in her eyes. “Oh! Honey, you’re back!” she exclaimed. “Was it a half day?” Forest said nothing. Carefully he kept his eyes on the floor. “Sweetheart, who are you talking to?” said Mr. Mwaha. “Why, what’s wrong with you? He’s right there.” Cornello looked around. There was genuine bewilderment in his voice. “Right where?” A fierce smile transmogrified the face of Forest. Now he knew. Now he was sure. Keeping the terrible grin fixed on his face, he lifted his eyes until he was looking straight into Cornello’s. Cornello jumped up, staggering backward as if he’d seen a ghost, a strangled cry breaking out of him. “Huh-where’d you come from?” “Why are you here?” said Forest. “I—I was—“ “I did not give you leave to come here.” Forest said. He was conscious only of being filled with cold, towering, deadly rage. He felt as if he was rising as he stood, as if his body was stretching so as to become many times taller than it was. He lifted one hand and pointed it, past Cornello, to where through the sliding glass doors the Big Island’s pines rose from the ice across the bay. “Get out. Don’t come here again. Don’t go near my mother.” “Who do you think you are to give me—“ “I am the man of this house.” said Forest. Appealingly Cornello turned to Mrs. Lake. “Darling, you’re not gonna let this 15 year old squirt dictate your life for you?! You’d really better teach him some respect. Haven’t you any idea of who I am?” “He is fifteen.” said Mrs. Lake. “And, you know, Cornie, I really wasn’t too pleased with you coming over.” “You…you mean you…this is ridiculous. Come on, honey. My house is just over there. Let’s go for a walk where this squirt can’t bother us.” He pulled Mrs. Lake to her feet. She seemed both frightened and fascinated, and did not resist. “Let go of my mother.” said Forest. “Oh, really? What are you gonna do, kid? Call the police or something? You might as well get used to it. Your mom and I have been going out for quite a while, haven’t we, honey?” Mrs. Lake kept looking at him with that confused fascination and didn’t say anything. “I told you to let her go.” said Forest. Whether it was the wind or some other power, the very house seemed to shudder s he spoke. His eyes filled with fire. He threw out his hand, and the very air around it seemed to waver. “In the name of the Road you will go from my house!” '' There was a crash as Cornello, staggering backward, fell over a chair and skidded across the floor as if he had been pushed. Not even getting up he scrabbled on hands and knees to the sliding door. Forest did not lower his hand. Rage roared through him, and power fed on his rage, and he kept hand and eye firmly pointed, by some instinct beyond guessing, at the head of Cornello. Fearfully the rubicund man glanced back at Forest. For a moment the boy felt a vast and terrible menance, gathered before him, stymied for the moment but a threat and peril not to be dismissed. Then Cornello, not even bothering to get his coat, had thrown open the door and was fleeing out onto the ice. He looked back once, but a wind howled down the lake, and a furious army of snow devils whirled up around him, and the last thing Forest saw of him he was spinning like a leaf across the grey floor. Forest went over and closed the door, and then locked it. The deep thunder of the wind muted. It was cold in the large room. “Forest.” said Mrs. Lake. He regarded her gravely. “Thanks.” He arched one eyebrow. “Honest, honey, I didn’t ask him over. He was out ice fishing and knocked on the door when he saw I was in.” “Why did you let him in?” “I…well…what could I do?” “Don’t let him in.” said Forest. “Don’t even nod. He can’t enter this house unless you let him in.” “What makes you think ''that?” she asked, mystified. He shrugged. “He’s…not right.” He smacked his head, furious. He feels evil and unright, was what he’d wanted to say, '' and in stories such things cannot cross the threshold''. “He feels…wrong.” he blundered on. “He doesn’t feel healthy.” Mrs. Lake nodded, eyes becoming thoughtful. “I think I see what you mean.” she murmered. “He always has a weird effect on me, too. And treating my boy like a two-year-old. Creep.” Forest felt strangely better. He didn’t want to talk; he was rather in a burnt-out mood from reaction. Looking over at the sofa he noticed Cornello’s coat—and hat, and gloves—were still on it. Going over he felt in the pockets. “Oh, look, he didn’t even put on his coat!” exclaimed Mrs. Lake. “Poor man, he’ll be frozen!” “Don’t even think about going over to return them.” said Forest. He felt in the left pocket. It bulged with all sorts of junk, but in the right pocket there was only one item. He spread them out on the table. “Forest, I don’t think you should be looking through someone else’s stuff…” The left pocket held several peculiar chunks of carved wood with wires twisted around them and marks drawn with black ink. There was also an assortment of odd yellowy-tan beads, that looked almost like they were made of bone. Several coins of a currency Forest had never heard of, gold with an elaborate stamping of interwined thorns around the figure of a robed horseman, were there as well. But the item in the right pocket was a tiny statue, apparently wrought in silver, of a monster with several heads. “Oh, look, that must be the Hydra he was telling me about!” exclaimed Mrs. Lake. “That’s not a hydra.” said Forest. “It has legs. It’s a dragon.” He dropped it hastily on the table. '' Evil,'' his mind was screaming. The touch of these is evil. We have to get rid of them! '' But all he could splutter were a few incoherent sounds. He raced into the kitchen and grabbed the dustpan. Trying not to touch them he scooped them up and flung open the sliding door again. There were seven heads upon the statuette. He crashed through the thin snow on the island’s sunny southern lawn. Steam and an odor of burnt plastic rose from the dustpan. Forest threw objects and dustpan as far upon the ice as he could. There was a thunderous crack. A jagged hole burst in the ice. Steam hissed skyward, but the clean wind took it and it passed away. “The lake is mightier than they.” he said. “Forest, what ''were those things? And what possessed you to just throw them out like that?” his mom protested as he went back in. “Black magic.” said Forest, his brows drawn. “They were charms and amulets. They knew me. I think he left them on purpose.” Mrs. Lake laughed. “Oh, is that all! It’s quite all right, honey. He collects stuff like that. I saw some things he’d bought from medicine men and African witch-doctors over at his house. It’s quite interesting. I hope you didn’t throw them as far as that hole.” “They made the hole.” “Oh, they fell in? That’s not good, honey, they could be valuable and then we’d be responsible for replacing them and goodness knows how much that would cost…” Forest closed his eyes. It wasn’t worth the futility. “Did he give you any of his ‘trinkets’ and ‘harmless jewelry’?” “Well,” said Mrs. Lake, looking doubtful, “he did give me some healing quartz crystals…and that Hatian voodoo thing…” “We’ve got to get rid of them. Now.” “…and that cute Mexican snake-cross, and a skull charm of pure silver, and a tarot card (she blushed a pleasant pink at the memory; it had featured an unclothed couple)…oh, and that darling jade idol…” Forest headed into his mom’s room and started ransacking it. “What are you…Forest, get out of my…why?” Forest fixed her with his strange dreamy eyes. The burning earnestness of his gaze caught her breath. “Mom. You gotta trust me on this, okay? '' As long as anything of his is in this house, he can get in. '' Got that?” “But I don’t understand…” “But I do.” said Forest. “Magic isn’t a joke, Mom. You believe in the Devil, right?” “Well, I guess so, but…” “Superstition can kill.” Forest stated. “If you have something he gave you, he has a foot in the door. It’s like as if he bugged the place with little energy bombs. Now hunt up everything he gave you.” Still not quite believing him, Mrs. Lake decided to humor him and they spent the afternoon dismantling her bedroom in search of anything remotely connected with Cornello. They even cleaned a few items out of the car. Forest made sure he wore gloves when he handled them; but how did you guard against spiritual contamination? Gloves probably were no good. He hurled everything into the open hole, which was already getting a thin flotilla of ice crystals. “Please God that this isn’t too late.” he muttered. When Lara Midwinter didn’t see or hear from Uncle Peter by the nightfall of the third day, she was worried enough to drive to Winsted and look for him. While she was checking the McDonald’s dumpster the manager came out to get something and exclaimed with delight, “Oh, you did get my call! I left a message with your mom if you could work tonight.” “Starting when?” said Lara. “Cause my uniform is back at home.” “That’s all right, we have spares. Right now would be perfect. Till closing?” “Sure. Let me use the phone real quick to tell Mom I won’t make it for supper.” This being accomplished, Lara changed and started work. “Closing”—translation, two in the morning—was not anyone’s favorite shift, and she just hoped she could stay awake. It was the first time she’d worked this late, and there was only Eric with her when Cass went home at midnight. It was creepy, in a way. The lights inside had a kind of overtired ghost-like brightness. Lara went outside once or twice, looking around. Winsted was dead and silent, the dim orange of streetlights and the weary neon white of the parking lot lamps like vague cones of sight fading into shadow. Lara noticed a black figure, thin and stooped, prowling slowly down the CVS pharmacy drive-thru two doors down. The faint clink of cans sounded through the warmish night. Another dark figure slipped past on the way to who knew what ungodly business, and far off by the College she saw another moving shape up by the street. “The Shadow Folk are out.” said Uncle Peter. She’d seen him coming from a distance so she wasn’t too startled. “The who?” Peter Midwinter gestured to the furtive shapes. “We are the Shadow Folk. We are those who prowl at unearthly hours when Christian men are asleep. We pry into dumpsters and duck down back alleys, pursuing our shadowy business, or poking in vacant houses to see what we can find. Police are our unfriends. We are a shadow-people, weaving the borders of the dark underworlds and the daylight folk, normal folk like you who go to bed at night.” “They’re not trusty.” “No,” agreed Uncle Peter, “nor safe, though we have our own queer honour. But do not trust the Shadow-folk (though you may trust us more than crooks).” “I have the answer.” He nodded slowly. Even though she was not looking at him, Lara felt the air quiver with the auroa of power and dignity that he was drawing around him. '' “Where aims the point of the arrow of the Herald?” And Lara felt each chunk of sound she uttered come out thick and powerful, as though instead of words she uttered spells. '' “Through the Heart of the Fish and the Eye of the Snake, he aims upon the Star of the Northern Pole.” “You have answered well.” said the voice of Peter Midwinter. “Now say I, Peter son of Heden the One of Fur and Leather, eldest of the house of Midwinter at one hundred years and four, the last riddle of three: '' “What bears up the Herald, on what does he ride?” '' Lara looked up to the southern sky; but the Moon was half-full by now and many of the Stars were blocked, and she could not find the Herald. “What happens if I can’t answer?” Her uncle threw up his hands. “There’s no telling. I was told death; but now that I have seen the Wild Man and heard the mercy in the voice of Arheled, I do not know. But we have only three days to answer this one in.” Forest could not sleep. It was late now and bitterly cold; the iron wind drove cold into every chink and he had to put a second layer of blankets on. And he still could not sleep. He got up and stared out the window. The angry hole in the ice was still there, black, unfrozen, like a wound. A single light gleamed from among the dark swaying trees on the island across from him, like a malevolent star. A shiver passed through him and he went back to bed. He made a resolution the next day: he was dropping out of school. Cornello knew where he went; Forest did not want to be found. Slipping downstairs before Mom got up he fixed three sandwiches and put them in his backpack. He got outside and stood for a moment, looking at the ice. The snow on the island was thin. He decided against taking the bus. It was with no surprise that he saw the man in brown sailing up to the big rock, kneeling on a wooden sled of prodigious length. There was a shower of shaved-ice snow, and Forest saw that he was propelling it using the curved claws of bottle-opener blades of two jackknives. “All abooooard!” he called, chortling. Forest felt a quiet grin grow upon his face as he sat down on the stern part of the sled. “I heard your invocation,” said Brown, looking over his shoulder. “I did not realise how well I had called! This Returning is different from the others. Much different. I have never seen such power in those whom I called…but then, I never have faced such foes before, either.” “Who is Cornello?” “A Man, at the moment, I suppose.” said Brown as he dug in his blades and the sled got underway, sliding across the ice like a small but unwieldly ship. “But the problem with Men is that they do not always remain so.” Forest made a sound. “What do I mean? Man was once so powerful, Forest, that all other creatures would have bowed and called him Lord. For lord he was. He has lost it now; yet his nature remembers what it was. And he can be enhanced, by calling to other powers, or to what I called the ‘residue’ of Chaos. Or he can be taken over by mightier beings. Did you see the things in his pockets?” “You mean he’s a magician?” “Oh, worse than that, by now.” said the Man in Brown. His arms moved like wings, describing tubelike circles as they rose and fell, propelling the sled. “I’m afraid he might not be himself any longer. He can’t enter your house now, Forest; nor your island. You called down the Road upon him and now your island is under the Road; and you are both revealed to and hidden from him.” He paused to let the sled glide while he caught his breath. “Men are both the highest and lowest of all the creatures of God. Highest, for God is Man. Lowest…Forest, have you ever heard of Goblins?” “You mean Orcs? But they came from Elves.” “Some, yes.” replied Brown. “That was how they began. The defects and mutations became hereditary, of course, and the brutality of instinct and mind…but could the Ancient Foe alter an entire race so much that their souls became evil? No, I think not. And Elves have no original sin, Forest; they have no hereditary taint as Men do. No, though the Orcs of the Elder Days came of Elves, when Men came into Beleriand the nature of Orcs changed.” “How?” “Orc-children, being Elf in nature, only had genetic defects and mental problems passed on to them. They weren’t evil. So the Morgoth had to ‘train’ them in horrible rites and dominate them. But when Men came, he realised how their Original Sin might be introduced into Orcs, and so he debased his Men until they mated with the Hags, the orc-women. ‘And the sons of God saw the daughters of Men that they were fair…’” He shook himself. “At any rate, with Original Sin, the transmission of evil became easier. Observe savage cultures that practice the most gruesome forms of devil-worship. In a few generations they sink nearly to brutes, and far worse. Brought up to evil, they are evil. And these are pure Men! Far worse with Orcs, their mongrel nature now Elf, now Man; yet the nature of Man stayed.” “Why would God keep sending souls to the Orcs?” “Why does God keep sending souls to the test-tube babies and the evil embryonic experiments?” Brown said bitterly. “Because it is the law of His Creation. But I think, nevertheless, that despite hereditary mutation and genetic twisting, despite inherited perversion and mental disease and brutality, despite a cultural training (which even the petty realms of unmastered orcs would continue) that hardens orc-young into evil, I believe that at some point in their lives Orcs receive one ray of grace, one chance to reject Satan and all his works; and at least some of the mutinies and rebellions that always arose in Orc-armies were born from this cause. Yet few, few indeed, would ever answer that ray, I fear; and thus after it was rejected the Orc would be damned on his feet.” “Do Orcs have long life? Gorbag and Shagrat talk as if the Last Alliance was only a few generations back.” “Yet it was three thousand years previous.” nodded Brown. “It could be. Some could still be derived from Elves corrupted anew by Sauron, who knew the science; but Orcs get killed a lot, so to survive that long they would be fell indeed. Besides, you forget the army propaganda, drilled into the Orcs constantly; it would certainly emphasis the Bad Old Days enough to make it seem like yesterday to them.” “What happened to the Orcs, were they ever destroyed?” “The Great Flood drowned most, but not all.” said Brown. “Those left were hunted by the sons of Noe. Yet still a few linger even into today, wary and few, wild as beasts: Bigfoot…the Yeti…the Abominable Snowman…” The sled whirred on as he launched off again. They passed through the wide place between the two Narrows and passed Indian Point on the right. Second Narrows behind them, the broad head of the lake opened out. “If an Elf and a Man have children, the offspring always have the nature of Men.” said the man in brown. “The Half-elven of Luthien and Tuor were given a choice between Kindreds; not so the Lords of Dol Amroth, born of an Elf of Nimrodel’s folk. The same applies for spawn of Elf-origin Orcs that mated with Men, or men-orcs: the spawn have Men-nature.” “I thought Saruman bred Men and Orcs.” “Oh, he only rediscovered it, and refined it to produce Orcish Men as well as Mannic Orcs. Sauron had been doing it already, long before. But not even the Dark Lord could wither the Stars.” “Until they withered themselves.” Forest murmered. “Oh, they didn’t, exactly. A little more complicated than that; with beings of such height, it was bound to be.” “Why did the Stars rebel?” “There is always something to rebel about.” the man in brown said. The sled glided on under its’ own steam. “But what made them do it? Why?” “I do not know.” replied the Man in Brown. “I cannot explain why the children of Men do one half the things they do; and if I cannot explain the actions of Men, how can I explain the actions of the Stars?” The sled sailed into the narrow cove of Resha Beach. First Bay has two deep narrowing coves on its’ eastern shore, sundered by Indian Point: Sandy Cove and the cove of Resha Beach. The latter shares the shoreline of the spillway and is fronted by Pond Hill’s low crown, ending near a dip in the hills where a valley pours down into the main vale of Winsted. Cottages and docks line the shores, but the Beach itself is a shallow stretch of mud-coated sand, with bogs on either hand in which grow reeds and fallen willows. A high earthen berm erected after the 55 Flood is intended to prevent the overflow of the Lake that occurred that year, in which the Lake drained by spillways and this valley. Of old it terminated in a swamp, which is now occupied by the sunken parking lot; the reason for the bizarre way that East Lake St and Hurlbut Av meet, going far out of their direct way to one side. Hurlbut comes up from the Winsted Valley, meeting East Lake at its’ descent from the crest of Pond Hill at a T; but the road that runs on along the eastern lake shore is named East Wakefield. Brown glided up onto the beach, leaving the sled. Snowmobiles had used this as an access point, forming a gulch in the hard deep snow. Up and over the berm they mounted and walked through the unplowed lot to the roadmeet. Downhill a dozen yards was a freestanding mortared wall, from which jutted a pipe, and an endless stream of cold clear water poured from this into a storm-sewer grate underneath: the copious water of the Big Spring. “Drink of him, Forest, and drink well.” bade the Man in Brown. “For alone of the springs of the New World, the waters of this come from the heart of the earth, and up this reach the fingers of the Dweller in the Deep, whose task it was of old to blend the waters from air and dew and send them up into the springs.” Forest took off his scarf and drank from the steady rod of bent liquid glass that flowed eternally from the pipe. Great snowpiles, where the street plows had attempted to keep the front of the spring clear, rose brown and sun-melted on both sides. Forest thought to himself how odd the sunmelt looked; it ate the hard sandy face of the snowpile in horizontal pinnacles and pits, like a slope of big rough needles, giving it a jagged toothy raggedness. The water was incredibly clear and cold and clean, tasting faintly of earth and ice and stone. “Where are we going today?” he said. “The library will do.” said Brown. “Beware the librarians; do not speak to them, do not trust them, especially the Watcher and the Witch. Did you notice,” he said, abruptly changing the topic, “that in the forests the snowpack is almost stiff enough to walk on? All this half-melting and freezing up again. I even made it across the Meadow this morning!” “Who is the Wild Man of Winsted?” said Forest. “What got you on that subject?” Brown wondered. “It was in the paper a while back.” Forest shrugged. “Something about terrorists breaking open a jail; ‘guards claim to see Wild Man’ or something. What is the Wild Man? I mean, I know the legend—I read about it last year I think—but what is he?” “Ah, the Wild Man.” said the man in brown, with a curious inflection in his voice. “Smith claimed he saw an ape-man, and because he was a solid citizen selectman everyone believed what he saw was true. Seeing is believing, they say. But what one can see others cannot; is it then less true because they are blind to it? You, for instance, saw the Stars, but anyone else would have seen only a winter night. But what you saw was real, wasn’t it? If something was wrong with your eyes so that all you could see was red, you would be justified in claiming that all things are red. But you would be wrong.” They passed the wide Y fork where Hurlbut merges with Pratt, just before the latter begins its’ long impossibly steep climb up onto Case Mountain. Regular city blocks existed here, due to the several parallel streets running along the lower slope of Pond Hill, on the south and west sides of the Winsted Valley. The houses were mostly large, square and white, with little ornament: the working-class tenements of a hundred years ago. The grim, half-quaint dinginess of the dwellings in the Flat was not noticeable here. “There are some people, Forest, who when you try to show them something can only see nothing; who if I walked before them would see only a shadow, no matter how much I try to pierce the blindness of their eyes, until I am shouting with the effort to penetrate their deafness and waving my hands before their eyes to catch their blind attention. They might see then a wild creature roaring at them, and running flee as they howl of the Wild Man of Winsted.” Forest turned and stared at Brown. “Are you the Wild Man?” “I am wild, but I am not Man.” Brown answered. “He is wild as well, far wilder than me, for he is many things; he is earth, and he is stone, and he is dangerous beyond measure. Beware of him, Forest; do not call upon him, do not seek him out, and if by some dreadful chance he shows himself, command him by the Road and by the Warden of the Road, for those he serves.” “Who is the Warden?” “Every road must be tended, and often defended.” said the Man in Brown. “A warden is one who wards. He also shovels snow and does the plowing and waters the plantings; the roads here in Winsted, of course, are warded by the Highway Department, and the back roads often have none to tend to them but the state DOT. There are many people in their ranks. But the Warden is not of them.” They reached the juncture of Pratt with Prospect and turned left. Neither said much as they walked along the rim of the valley, looking out over Winsted. Forest looked down at the Methodist church and the queer zigzag of climbing streets behind it, to where the Soldiers’ Tower showed dimly through the trees. The sky was a deep powerful blue. “Mr. Brown, which direction is Temple Fell?” said Forest. “Because Indian Meadow is two miles from the milestone as well.” “Ask Bell about that.” replied the Man in Brown. “The churches point the way. Or you could simply go from hill to hill.” “Oh.” said Forest. “With this much snow, you’ll just have to await the faint and far-off coming of spring.” They walked down Meadow Street. An abandoned factory of brick with many broken windows looked mournfully down on them from the right. A garage stood on the left in a level yard beneath big stone walls holding back the hill. They passed an old dam over which the lake outflow stream thundered in an icicle-sheathed curtain, spuming down a buried rocky bed under the road and under the factory. Upstream stood a bigger factory, also brick, wings jutting out at all different angles and a square tower amidmost, three blank windows like sad eyes. Here a side street cut across to Main which ran parallel to Meadow about a thousand feet away on the right, until it bent around west on its’ way out of Winsted and met the end of Meadow. They turned down this. The houses were nice neat old residences, often with queer antique trim. Another factory filled one side, with a small old apple tree (Golden Delicious, Brown said) near the sidewalk. Mad River flowed under a new bridge, a high cement wall defending Main St against it. Main was busy with cars. From behind the gas station on the left another side street met Main, not two hundred feet away, opposite Spencer Hill Rd and the Old Baptist church Forest went to. Twin traffic lights blocked the double intersection. Across Main from them the ground rose, and Munro Av. came down from Camp Hill, the library perched on the high bank right of it. “See that triangle with the chestnut tree?” Brown shouted, indicating the little triangular green near the church. Spencer Hill Rd came down on the north, and Wetmore climbed up from the light going east, and where they met was a triangle of land between two roads. The intersection was like an X. Cropped cherry trees grew around a rambling chestnut. “That’s Flatiron Park. Name’s gone out of use for a hundred years, like the hills.” The light turned green and they headed across and into the library. Brown ignored the librarians, who didn’t seem to see either of them, and went into the adult reading room. A slight, rather severe-looking young lady in tight-fitting black blouse and skirt was frowning over a book as she sat stiffly in one of the brown armchairs. Her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun. The man in brown came to a stop in front of her. “You wanted to see me, Lara?” The girl looked up with a start. She had pleasing though hollow features and blank but vivid brown eyes with an odd abstract intensity of light. Like stars, Forest thought. She’s been starstricken, too. She stared for half a second before her entire face lit. More like ignited. She had a poised sort of beauty about her when she smiled. “Yes, how did you know?” Lara Midwinter exclaimed. “Oh, hi Forest. Mr. Brown, I need help. I can’t solve the third riddle.” “Last night the stars were clear.” replied the man in brown. “Yes, I know, but all I could see under the Herald was a line of stars that sort of cuts off his calves and then twists down to the right. I looked up the star map and the only thing it shows under the Herald is this Lepus constellation. Lepus! A rabbit! ''Now if it was the river Epiderus, I could see, but that’s over to the right. And neither fits the line I saw.” “The third riddle is always the hardest.” said Brown gently. “The first springs easily to mind. The second needs some figuring. But the third—the third is a mystery. If it’s any comfort, all the Midwinters before you needed help with it as well.” “Tonight marks the third day.” said Lara. Forest had wandered off to the tables and was studying the map atlas again, but listening hard. “Then I will give you a little help.” answered Brown. “The rabbit is a lie. The river drowns the rabbit.” “Oh thanks, that’s a lot of help.” she said sarcastically. Brown seemed to change. Taller, he loomed over her like a great presence, pushing everything before it with its’ sheer unseen size. Forest heard the building creak and floors groan around him. “And would you rather I tell you everything, as an infant that can do nothing?” he said softly; but the softness crackled with concealed lightning. “I do not call babies. I call those who can see.” Lara swallowed and said nothing. The sun shone in again and the room cleared as the man in brown resumed his normal aspect, like a cloak drawn over a blinding light. “You’re a very intelligent lass.” he said to her. “More so even than the other Starmaidens who preceded you. I have no doubt you will arrive at the answer.” Lara stared at the man in brown. “I have predecessors?” she said. '' “I survived your predecessors and I will survive you!” '' chuckled Brown. Seeing her blank expression he mumbled, “Matrix quote, sorry.” “I didn’t know you watched movies.” she said. “Movies are stories, and stories are always intriguing.” said Brown. “If I am to teach rightly, I must know what men think, what grips their imagination and what occupies their thoughts. A hundred years ago it was theater and Dickens and penny dreadfuls. Very interesting little dreadfuls, I must say. But the sheer wealth of stories in these days—to me, it’s like constant dessert. Long ages of bald trunk and strong branches, then leaves, lovely but still lacking; and now! Now the tree is in blossom, Lara! Blossom and fruit at once! I look at the movies, and despite much that is gross and polluted I see many mighty tales; I look at the books and the writings that those unrecognised have posted, and so vivid and varied is the offspring of Middle-Earth, despite the many worms and molds in the fruit.” “Wow.” said Lara. She laughed. “Mom doesn’t hold with movies.” “Some people do grow ill from eating the mold.” Brown agreed. “Not everyone knows how to pare away the rot, and for them it may be better to shun the fruit completely.” “You said I am of the stars.” said Lara. “And I think you also asked me what my name meant.” “And you found the meaning ''Protection is attributed to it.” Brown nodded. “And you suspect differently.” “Does it have other meanings?” “Sometimes a name does not fit the person given it.” he answered. “And sometimes it does. You, for instance, are not called to protection, but to the stars.” “You said Lepus was not the true constellation.” “Oh, seen from one angle it is; not when seen from another.” Brown replied. “Even Orion is shown sometimes with his true bow and arrow, sometimes holding up a lion pelt. As men have interpreted the shapes.” “Tell me the stars.” Brown gazed off into the distance. “Men see the same stars from many different places and give them many different names, and see different shapes in them as well. The names the stars bear and the shapes usually shown for them are those that men gave them; but what names do the stars have in themselves? What are their right names? What are the true shapes of the constellations? Those are lost to men now.” Lara nodded. “I suppose.” The man in brown pulled his collar up. “I have to be on my way. Your uncle eats at the Open Door, down behind the Episcopal Church: they serve a free meal to anyone at 11:30, no questions asked. Goodbye for the moment, Lara.” “Thanks for the help.” smiled Lara. The man in brown inclined his head and walked out of the door. Lara frowned over the star chart in the book she’d been examining. It was the one detailing Orion, and she ignored the absurd way the dots were connected and concentrated on the stars themselves. Lepus had a curving line of bright stars in the top row, cutting off Orion’s calves just under the bright knee-star Rigel. Epiderus was shown by the connected lines to begin right under the bow and curve down, then kink to the right about level with Rigel and wind its’ way on. Between Lepus and this kink was a single star. “The river drowns the rabbit.” she muttered. Of course. It was absurdly simple. There was no Lepus. There was only the River, running in an arc that bore the Herald up. She shut the book with a snap and drove down the street to St. James Episcopal church, while Forest meanwhile headed upstairs to find a good book and waste time till he could call Mom for a ride. The queer mansonry gables and green metalled roof formed a peculiar backdrop to the small crossing-street. The street stood above the foundation by about ten feet, with the bizarre result that the rear windows actually were below the street. The old school building came to the street by a jutting ledge of sidewalk, very wide, that had a sheer drop on the left fenced with pipe handrails. Low school doors opened under an overhanging porch roof. Going through these Lara found she was in a short hall, restrooms on the left with very small antique sinks and battered stalls, a kitchen on the right. What had likely been the cafeteria opened off the hall, a medium-sized room with large square windows at the far end and right side; a supply room seemed to be on the left. Closer to the entrance and also on the left was a desk in an alcove, covered with odds and ends. There was a bowl with little candy hearts. Behind this were refrigerators. Another table held day-old bread, doubtless donated by the local supermarket. Cafeteria tables and folding chairs, all greyish brown, were arranged in rows, two tables a row with an avenue between. Lara hesitantly chose a chair at an empty table near a window; she felt dreadfully self-conscious. She spent the first few minutes looking over the room. The kitchen wall had a shuttered hatch. A clock hung over the door. Signs in old marker announced take-out dinners were one per person! and not till 12:30! as well as warning that school closings meant kitchen closings. On the far side from the desk, near the shuttered hatch, a table held a covered tray of Danishes and slices of rather odd cake with the icing falling off, as well as coffee dispensers. The tables had an incongruous assortment of people; there were two young families with kids, looking faintly Hispanic and inner-city; there were clusters of eccentric old veterans, some even in khaki and greatcoats, loudly reminiscing or griping about Obama and the governor’s new taxes. They had odd sad faces with extremely distinct features; one looked like ears and nose had been squeezed and pinched from long wax, and another resembled Basil Grant, heavy and ponderous with hooked features and grey hair. There was a smattering of obviously homeless characters (though none were ragged, they just had that air about them). There was a tall man with silver hair under a black cowboy hat broided with silver, short silver beard, and black motorcyclist leather jacket covered with badges and metal ornaments, who to complete the picture wore sunglasses and black cowboy boots. There was old Bob the Jehovah’s Witness who haunted Main St with his tracts in the evenings, debating the Trinity with none other than Ronnie Wendy, his tan fedora-like hat on his large serious head. And there was Uncle Peter, sitting alone at the extreme rear, wild beard contrasting oddly with his neat denim clothing. She noticed the staff soon enough; there was a stout old fellow with a short white beard and glasses, red shirt and black pants with actual suspenders, who eerily resembled Santa Claus. There were several fluffy and papery old ladies in the kitchen, as well as a rather ordinarily-pretty girl Lara’s age with black hair. An odd-shaped old man with a comb-like mustache, short white hair, and an air of perpetually stretching himself out, was bustling around putting out baskets of buttered bread. He wore a green shirt. Getting a napkin Lara selected a cake and Danish and headed over to Uncle Peter’s table. “Ah, there you are. Good morning,” he greeted. “I had a feeling you’d drop by.” “I had a little help with the answer.” said Lara. “At the library. He said I’d find you here.” “Thought you might.” he grunted. “So, you have the answer?” Lara nodded. The sunlight streaming in the windows dimmed. The air seemed suddenly tense, stuffed with ominousness, as if the inside of the room was about to fill with storm. Even though he was seated she could feel the cloak of power around him, like a crackling halo of vast might and danger. “Now say I, Peter son of Heden whose body was not found, eldest of the House of Midwinter at one hundred years and four, unto Lara eldest daughter of Nine Midwinters, the final riddle of three: '' “What bears up the Herald, on what does he ride?” Lara felt an auroa of her own, radiating power and peril in answer to his, growing around her. The sun went out once more and the room filled with shadows. Yet of all the people there, the only one who seemed at all to notice was Ronnie Wendy; even with her head facing away she felt his burning gaze. She spoke, and words seemed to come out of her without her shaping them, as if they existed of themselves and had waited for her to utter them. ''“Daslenga bears the Herald, for angry is he; on the river of silver the rider is him.” Sunlight crashed back into the room. Lara and her uncle fell back in their chairs. The ominous haze of pent power disappeared. In the silence, scratched only faintly by the voices around them, she heard her uncle’s weary voice. “I have no son of my own. There is none to pass the Lore for the next Returning. My task is ended, Arheled.” She was aware that the occupants of the tables were shuffling forward in a line toward the unshuttered hatch, and felt oddly hungry herself. As she bit into her Danish she looked up and met the eyes of Ronnie Wendy. “You are one of the six.” he stated. Lara could only nod. “But I don’t get it.” she burst out. “What does it all mean? Where is all this going?” “I fancy we’ll find out.” said Ronnie dryly. “You want to eat?” Uncle Peter was already in line. She stood up resignedly. “I might as well.” “So, what exactly was all this about the riddles and Arheled?” Ronnie said to her directly when they again sat down. Lara’s plate held stewed vegetables, a wonderful kind of meatloaf she’d never experienced before, and a fruit dish. Ronnie had taken two bowls of ice cream as well. Lara glanced over at Uncle Peter, but he had taken a seat at the far end of the next table and said nothing. “It’s all bound up with the constellation Orion. According to my great-great-uncle there, his true name is the Herald. There’s a strange heritage of lore that’s been passed down through my family, in the form of three riddles.” Ronnie heard her description of the riddles, as well as the mysterious forces that had gathered around them, in silence. “What do you think it means?” he said. “His head is hidden, his arrow shoots through a Fish and a Snake to strike the North Star, and he rides upon a river apparently named Daslenga. I don’t know.” “Your uncle mentioned Arheled.” Ronnie commented. “Yes, but he refuses to tell me who he is. Something to do with ‘the Road’ and the Wild Man. He says I’ll know soon enough…and he also seems to think I’ve already met him.” “So have I.” said Ronnie. “In a dream. A dream Forest shared with me. A rough uncouth man, in a little grey house above a deep gorgeous pine valley like a gulf, and a river spilled eternally into it in a silver waterfall at the far end, but never issued from it though it flowed along the bottom. And he named that river Daslenga.” His voice grew dreamy and strange. “From it the gods dipped great pitchers when they went to make the Stars.” '' Starmaiden starmaiden starhearted starmaiden… '' “Are you okay?” Ronnie was shaking her. '' Stars in your eyes dirla, stars in your heart dorha… '' “That is where I saw it.” she mumbled. “I saw them make the Stars. Arheled cured me. I’ve met him, too.” “Yes, I can see that.” muttered Ronnie. “Here Eat. Do it quickly.” She started shoveling in the meatloaf. It was amazingly good. The eerie deadly singing of the stars faded and was gone. “How did you know that would work?” she said. He shrugged. “Instinct. How’d you know the exact words of those riddle-answers?” “Point taken.” She swallowed. “So, who are the others?” “Besides me and you, the only one I know for sure is Forest. Travel Lane over there did mention something once about a mysterious man in a leather coat, but I don’t know if she’s one. And then there’s Bell Light, who knew the Rime of the 5 Churches. I suppose we’ll find out.” “On Temple Fell.” she agreed grimly. Forest stayed at the library all day. He called home about three to tell Mrs. Lake where he was and that he’d be walking home. She seemed a little surprised but he reminded her it was only a couple miles. “How’s everything going? You all—safe?” he said with an effort. Her laughter reassured him. He soon got so absorbed in his book that he only noticed it was dark outside the windows when someone tapped him on the head. It was the man in brown. “Time to head home, Forest, or you’ll be late for supper.” he said. “Besides, the stars will be clear tonight. The Moon is gone.” “What time is it?” yawned Forest. “A little after six.” smiled the man in brown. They trudged up Lake St in silence. Once Forest asked “What is the Herald?” but Brown only said that there were too many trees right here. They emerged out onto the spillways and Brown pulled out his jackknives. The huge wooden sled was sitting on the ice. When they were out in the middle of First Bay the man in brown let the ship glide to a stop and sat on it like a bench. “Look at the stars, Forest.” he said. The great dome above them was am amazingly deep azure, almost black toward the zenith, a brighter blue lower down in the west. There in the east, upon his back like a man walking up a wall, was Orion. “That is the Herald.” said the man in brown. “But who is the Herald?” asked Forest. “He bears a bow which he holds forever drawn, and a shield on his arm; in his belt is thrust a sword, and from his hip swings a great horn. For he is a sign, of doom that was, and doom yet to come.” “Who is he shooting?” Brown laughed. “A very good question. He shoots disasters, Forest.” “You mean he hunts down dis…” Brown shook his head. “No, no, laddie. The Herald does not come to heal. He comes to cure. He shoots destruction, and his horn soundeth ruin.” Abruptly he dug in his knives and got underway. “He is not the constellation. The constellation is only his sign. When the Herald comes, he cannot be mistaken for anything else.” They sped on down the ice with the speed of the wind. Lights and silent homes flashed by. Soon Wintergreen Isle lay ahead, the lights of Forest’s house warm and cheery amid the dark trees and pale ice. Brown skidded to a halt at the big rock. “Thanks for the ride.” said Forest. He trudged up the steps and looked back. The man in brown sat on his sled, a dark shape in the cold darkness without. He lifted his hand.